It's the 70s.

The Americanpurge. A crucifixion of queercraft's votaries and anyone in between.

So, of course, a stratagem is commonplace. A system of coexistence. And you five live by it in Manhattan's palatial apartments: this pseudohetero normalcy of Hugo-Cameron Family and unsuspecting famed friends.

Evelyn espoused Harry to be her beard; you begrudgingly bound surnames with John. And C was a few strides away. Singlehandedly settling her mortgage, regularly coming over.

Since the heartbeat Connor's lightweight flab was cooped gingerly in Ev's laborsapped limbs, she'd pleaded—thumbing tender ellipses on shoulder to cheek—you (and Cece) to internalize doting aunties.

And Celia's been trying. Really trying. Taming this greeneyed hellhound into religious belief that, while Ev's infatuation for motherhood is flushed with her rancor, and you'd been arm in arm with your newmister and housewifery, you two are still hers. You and E. At night, in bed. In this brunch gettogether as Harry and his quarterback beau, John, coast through Puerto Galera's whiteshore.

"Good, right?"

C talks of oatmeal. Appearances are telling. And these shriveled jewels of grapes she brazenly drops in your bowl is clearly beholding your shrunken appetite incarnate staring back, eager for your mouth's tribute.

Connor, in her highchair, and for some reason, is caveman scarfing like she's without tongue. A dryheave reflex. Chin to pudgy cheeks, slathered in pasty concoction.

"If you eat like that, sweetheart," Evelyn dulcetly chimes in, spoon limp in her grip, "Auntie Cece might start thinking she’s Julia Child." A kinder verse to Celia, dear, iloveyou, and you're many things, but a cook.

Celia laughs. It is every bit sincere as Ev's smile.

"You should eat, too," Celia coaxes you anyway. Gaze sharp. "You have that radio interview later. Wouldn’t want you fainting on air."

Evelyn snorts. Shakes her blondehead. "God forbid," she murmurs. Under the table, her hand brushes your leg. A tether.

And Celia notices. Clenches her jaw.